The elegance of a formula that explains what can never be said but only felt is intuition. Intuition is never written. Once written, it is something else.

Intuition is not something you can reach out and touch. There is something about water and dolphins and whale singing that people try to express, only it always ends up sounding trite and cheerful like a sunny toothpaste commercial, but in reality can never be said or written.

Do we talk about zen and God and wish to communicate and exchange language between brains without ever speaking? As crazy as that sounds, military and security agencies of various governments are seriously looking into that subject.

What possible thing could I or anyone else ever uncover that would equal the riotous green moss screaming on a rotting and toppled tree limb in an awed and hushed forest or the unappreciated geode that I found accidentally when my lawnmower hit what looked like a plain and uninteresting old rock.

The mower hit it, and suddenly there it was, cracked open like a coconut. Yes, there it was, like a fossilized sparkling rock fetus created a billion years ago on a distant planet that exploded and rode on a comet that crashed into a dinosaur lair and waited. Just waited without words, or except maybe rock words, however hidden they might be, for someone to find it. I sensed somewhere in the prehistoric section of my brain that it was calling to me while I was methodically making clean and orderly swaths on my unruly yard grass. It kept calling my star name which has no sound but, nevertheless, is a real name like a frequency that is tuned to me, like a come hither call until I just did it, opened it up like a ripe melon, and there it was, not considered valuable at all.

The sparkling inside of a geode is crystallized, and, of course, there are crystal radios, so there might be a grain of truth somewhere in there.

Can you imagine, after eons of patient sitting until I could be born and acquire a yard and an instrument of destruction, in this case my lawnmower, that the geode was waiting for me to crack that case. I was intoxicated with its luscious bountiful self and all it had done for me simply by imagining that this was destiny. It was the same sense-crazed but silent love-furor I felt when I found a purple morning glory one morning and nearly swooned at the velvet-ness of its open workings.

Of course, I've overstated the experience. A geode is probably not from a distant planet. Dare we carry our poetic license in our wallet?